


A Matter of Life and Death

by blindbatalex



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Archenemies - Freeform, Crack, Football | Soccer, Humor, Liverpool F.C., M/M, Manchester United
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-07-15 15:27:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7227994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blindbatalex/pseuds/blindbatalex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Curious, Charles turned to his right hand side. In a split second he registered that yes, the man was in fact wearing a cape; his face was obscured by the odd looking metallic helmet he was wearing and oh God, he was actually wearing a helmet and a cape to a football game. </p><p>Or the fic where all Charles wants to do is to take a break from being a respectable public figure and watch the Manchester United vs Liverpool game in peace, but the universe has other plans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mm_nani](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mm_nani/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Magneto vs. The Magical X-Men](https://archiveofourown.org/works/672881) by [aesc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aesc/pseuds/aesc). 



> For mm_nani, who introduced me to the joys of football and fan fiction and guided me through the years.

Charles could not remember the last time he felt so unburdened. For a few, precious hours he too got to be a run-of-the-mill football fan—irresponsible and carefree. No worrying today about his students accidentally demolishing the school, nor about appearing sufficiently thoughtful and wise every waking minute. His students and staff seemed unable to function without someone to continuously inspire them. 

No worrying today about the latest diabolical plot Magneto and his mutant supremacist minions were hatching, nor about accidentally projecting yet another sex dream involving the said ridiculously hot mutant, nor about the last strained meeting with—well, considering the things he was not worrying about (and there were rather a lot, come to think of it) was pushing Charles dangerously close to worrying about them. It would be better to cut this ominous mental list short. What mattered was that today Charles would not allow himself to worry about anything other than how this underperforming United side was going to beat Liverpool. Considering the difference he was making in the world, he deserved to indulge a secret guilty pleasure every once in a while.

With his mind brushing against thousands of anxious and excited fans, Charles made his way to his seat—his beautiful seat, in the third row from the pitch and smack at the halfway line. From his seat Charles had a good view of the players who were rather fit and pleasing to look at, and as a telepath he could watch each position from multiple angles since he had no moral qualms about reaching into the recent memories other fans. 

Old Trafford was buzzing with more than seventy thousand minds chanting, singing and talking in loud voices, and before Charles knew it, the teams were in formation on the field, ready for kickoff. He couldn’t help but feel a bit disappointed at the empty seats next to him. What was this, the Etihad?

Once the game started, however, it soon escaped his mind, as did all else that was not related to the action on the field. He barely took notice of the man who settled next to him five minutes later, other than feeling mildly annoyed at the flowing fabric that blocked his vision as he slid past Charles. “What is he wearing, a bloody cape?” he thought for a moment before switching his attention back to the game. He sighed as the United defender passed the ball back to De Gea again—God forbid that they start an actual attack or anything.

He would have happily ignored the man sitting next to him at least until half time—he had very little interest in chatting with his neighbors anyways—if not for the man’s odd reaction a few minutes later. 

Charles felt the collective mind of the United support base tense up with excitement as United, for once, ran with the ball in an exquisite counterattack. There was Rooney passing the ball to Martial. The field wide open ahead of him, Martial ran towards a hapless Mignolet, unstoppable, his feet working like magic around the ball. As his shot went just wide of the post, Charles jumped up and then felt the stadium sag with disappointment. At the same instant, he heard the man next to him exhale in relief and mutter something that sounded like “Thank God” under his breath. What was even more odd was that it was just his voice that reached Charles; the man’s mind did not seem to leave the slightest trace.

Curious, Charles turned to his right hand side. In a split second he registered that yes, the man was in fact wearing a cape; his face was obscured by the odd looking metallic helmet he was wearing and oh God, he was actually wearing a helmet and a cape to a football game. For almost ten minutes now Charles had a Magneto wannabe sitting right next to him and he hadn’t so much as even noticed. The helmet must have been the real deal though, and those were very hard to procure, if it was completely blocking Charles’ telepathy. Just as he was trying to wrap his mind around why someone who was clearly not a United fan would show up here in full Magneto cosplay, the man suddenly turned his head around to look Charles in the eye. Charles realized that he had been staring at the man for some time now, and the man somehow had excellent peripheral vision despite the helmet that covered most of his face.

“Are you here to watch the game or—“ the man started but cut himself short. Charles could see his face go from annoyance to confusion to contempt (and was that disappointment?) in mere seconds. Charles could also see, as far as he could tell under the helmet and the cape that the man really did resemble Magneto with his gray eyes and the set of his quite attractive, thin mouth. Once again, however, the man cut Charles’ thoughts short. He seemed to be muttering more to himself than addressing Charles, as he turned his gaze back to the pitch.

“Of course. Of course it’s my luck to find the one seat in the whole damn stadium next to Charles Xavier. This is exactly what you get for not turning down a home ticket, you idiot.”

Charles was taken aback at the mention of his name. Then again, he was a public figure and it should be no surprise that this random mutant supremacist recognize him from some appearance or other. He was still annoyed that the Magneto wannabe was ruining his perfect game though, so he said as much.

“Hey, at least you are not the one who has to sit next to a ridiculous looking, mutant supremacist Magneto impersonator who was not smart enough to buy tickets for the correct section.”

The man’s gaze was back on Charles in an instant, sizing him up with intent.

“Magneto impersonator” he repeated to himself and Charles couldn’t decide whether to classify the sound he made afterwards as a growl or a snort. “Glad to know that the love is mutual” he said addressing Charles, “This, for your information, is my battle uniform. Even the baseline humans agree that it is majestic and stately and of course I am wearing it to the game. Playing United is always a matter of life and death.”

The man next to him was no Magneto impersonator, Charles realized with growing horror. He was sitting next to the notorious leader of the Brotherhood himself, the man who stood against everything Charles believed in and was prettier than any suspected terrorist had a right to be. He also appeared to be a staunch Liverpool supporter.

He then realized that he was (once again) gaping at Magneto. He collected himself, and said in what he was sure was a dignified tone “You are Magneto?” 

“I always thought, deluded as you are, that you were a worthy opponent, with that quickness of the mind so many lack. But perhaps I was wrong after all,” Magneto said with a smirk, his attention now on the game. 

Charles knew he was blushing. He was sure he had at least three separate sex dreams in the last month alone that opened with Magneto telling him that he was a worthy opponent, in a husky voice, as he took off his helmet in one deliberate, slow motion. 

Suspected terrorist, he reminded himself; even now he is probably thinking of a new plot. 

Stop being a blubbering fool this instant. 

These calming thoughts were the reason Charles managed to stop himself before he could blurt out “You support Liverpool, then?” and destroy for once and all Magneto’s regard for him as a worthy opponent. Not that he cared about Magneto’s high regard. 

Instead he put on his most thoughtful face and said in an even voice, oozing with intellect, “I would not take you for a football fan, Magneto, much less a Liverpool supporter.” There, that sounded smart.

To Charles’ chagrin Magneto snorted again.

“Do you make everyone you have just met call you Professor X, professor?”

Oh. He desperately tried to fight the blush now taking over his entire face when he remembered that he referred to the man as Magneto. 

“I thought you liked being majestic and stately at all occasions is all.” Charles replied. If making his mistake sound like a part of the plan did not attest to his intelligence he didn’t know what would.

“Magneto does sound rather majestic, doesn’t it?” Magne—Lehnsherr said, in a dreamy voice. His choice of helmet and billowing cape were making more sense to Charles by the second. “But I save it for the minions and the humans. It’s Lehnsherr or Erik when I’m watching football incognito.” 

Incognito. Right. To the man’s credit though, he did somehow make it into the stadium with that helmet on his head.

Charles’ cock had taken an interest in the proceedings too, and he had to remind it that he was here for the football. He took deep breaths and repeated suspected terrorist in his head like a mantra. He was glad when Lehnsherr didn’t push the conversation any further. Now he could watch the game in peace as he had hoped to.

Still, the unexpected interaction with Lehnsherr was giving Charles a headache. On the field United had won the ball and to Charles’ surprise, they did not pass it back this time. He rubbed at his temple absently to will the headache away. In the next moment he found himself jumping to his feet along with everyone else as Rooney sent a screamer from outside the box past Mignolet and into the net, from out of nowhere. Charles was almost sure that he felt a faint rumble, as though someone shook the foundations ever so slightly, but it was soon lost in the cheers and the chants that swept the stadium.

When he finally sat down he felt Lehnsherr’s steel gaze with all his body. He was looking at Charles with eyes narrowed to slits and mouth pressed into a paper-thin line, resembling a wild animal ready to tear children who dared anger him to pieces.

“You,” he growled “you used your power on Mignolet, didn’t you? You cheated. Don’t think I haven’t seen that hand at work on your temple.”

The fury in Lehnsherr’s face was so visceral that it sent Charles doubling over with laughter. It was his turn to be amused now. When the fits of laughter finally eased, and he dried his eyes Lehnsherr seemed even more pissed than before. 

The rumble in the stadium was unmistakable this time. Realizing the gravity of the situation Charles knew he had to act quickly now if he were to save them all from imminent doom. He made a mental note to add laughing at suspected terrorists to his list of Bad Ideas.

“Believe me, my friend,” he said “This is all Mignolet’s doing. I’m not sure if even I can confuse him any further than his natural state.”

When Lehsherr didn’t look convinced and the stadium continued to rumble, he added a hasty “The terrible player that I am, Rooney would score absolutely no goals if I tried to control his shots. Besides, I respect the game too much to meddle in the outcome.”

Lehnsherr looked as furious as he was before, but the rumbling abated. Perhaps he also looked a tad embarrassed but it was hard to tell behind the helmet. Charles added in a smaller voice, 

“I came here because I needed to take a break. I love fighting for the cause I believe in, but it sometimes gets a bit much. I thought if I could enjoy a game day, like any other fan…” he trailed off. He needed to seriously reconsider his life choices if he was opening his heart, out of the blue, to Magneto of all people.

When Magneto, ahem Lehnsherr, spoke after a few silent moments, the anger was gone from his voice.

“I know what you mean. So many people look up to you; they come to you to be led, to be inspired and to have that trust… You can’t afford the smallest moment of weakness or either the humans, or the integrationist hippies will have the upper hand before you can bat an eye, and they will be ready to destroy everything you stand for. To be ordinary, even if just for a few hours…”

Charles wanted to object to the ‘integrationist hippie’ label, but the man sounded pensive, almost sad. Charles remembered the earlier disappointment in Lehnsherr’s voice when he had found out just who his neighbor was. So, instead he said with a small smile:

“And then, just when you think you can enjoy one game in peace, you find yourself sitting next to your mortal enemy. Because the universe does not believe in breaks.”

“Something like that.”

Charles was surprised to see a smile matching his own on Lehnsherr’s face. He thought that the man understood him better than any of his friends, at least in this matter. 

The way they were facing each other, Lehnsherr was so close to him that it would take no effort to lean in and kiss him now. His smile, shy and tentative, created small crinkles around his gray eyes and softened the hard lines of his face. He looked nothing like the imposing, arrogant Magneto Charles was used to seeing on TV. Helmet or not, Lehnsherr looked open, vulnerable, and it might just have been the most fascinating thing Charles had ever seen.

There really was no justice in the universe; however, because the referee chose this exact instant to blow the halftime whistle and as if that was not enough there was now a family of four trying to make their way past the two of them. Lehnsherr seized this opportunity to bolt, following the family with a swish of his cape and not a single word. 

Charles decided to ignore the disappointment settling in his stomach and got up to get tea.


	2. Chapter 2

Erik splashed more water into his face and looked at his reflection in the mirror. There he was, the leader of the mutant movement, enjoying a sport whose institutions and rules blatantly discriminated against his kind, whose governing body forced mutant players to betray themselves by taking suppressants. They knew, of course, that their puny human players would stand no chance in a fair fight. He was in a sea of Mancs, and worse still had it not been for the referee’s judicious timing he would have made out with his archenemy. This guilty pleasure, harmless as it appeared at first, had gone too far.

It didn’t help that his archenemy had soulful blue eyes that seemed to hold all the mysteries of the universe, and all Erik needed to do was to look long enough for the mysteries to reveal themselves, one by one. His awkwardness, the polar opposite of the wise and all knowing public figure he cut. His laughter—

There, Erik was making the executive decision to stop this train of thought immediately. That way lay madness. Today may have been a poorly thought out fun break, but it was definitely not going to be the day he showed the world that he had gone soft in the head by declaring his undying love to Charles Xavier.

He could see in the mirror that the man at the next sink was giving him a funny look, no doubt because he was a baseline human who could not appreciate the intricacies of splashing one’s face with water while wearing a powerful, fashionable helmet. He considered for a brief moment sending the coin in his left pocket flying through the man’s skull. That would teach them all a lesson. He would then have to stage a dramatic exit and miss the second half and would be rewarded with on of Emma’s trademark “I told you this was a bad idea” looks. 

At least his incognito appearance in public was going great. He felt proud of himself for not causing any structural damage to the stadium nor to any of its occupants, despite the trying nature of the first half. No one could point a finger at him now and scream about unnecessary loss of life, or creatively reshaped metal.

If Liverpool lost the game though and he had to face thousands of smug United fans—if he had to face a smug Xavier—he wasn’t sure he could make such a fine display of dignity then. If only Liverpool would get to their senses and stop running around in terror the way humans tended to do around him from time to time, they would all be fine and the stadium would remain intact. He knew in his heart that Liverpool had the potential to beat this sorry excuse of a United team. They just needed some inspiration—someone to remind them who they were.

He was slowly making his way back to his seat, when an ingenious idea occurred to him. He, Erik Lehnsherr, Magneto, was known for his inspirational speeches and the ability to spur his followers into action. He also happened to be dressed for the occasion. All he had to was to discreetly find the away dressing room and talk some sense into the lads. 

I might just save the day yet, he thought.

Once he was decided on a plan of action, it took Erik very little time to find the away dressing room. That the stadium only had two sets of showers and that every steward carried a bit of metal on them made his job almost too easy. He could hear the players shouting through the door:

“Did anyone tell you that you are supposed to try and stop the shots before they go into the post, not stand by and watch the game like a bloody fan?!” he heard someone scream. Mignolet shouted back:

“Yeah, I can’t work miracles Henderson! Not with this sorry excuse for defense!”

There was even more shouting as the defensive players seemed to disagree with Mignolet. Erik congratulated himself for thinking of this timely intervention, which he could now see, or rather hear, was indeed sorely needed, before he walked in. 

The shouting continued for a few more moments, as the players remained absorbed in their argument. Then Emre Can was pointing at him, and exclaiming “Holy shit, that’s Magneto! The Magneto!” and almost choking on his energy bar in the process. 

Suddenly the only sound in the room was Emre Can’s coughing as everyone turned to look at Erik. Their faces, angry and dejected a few moments ago now revealed confusion as well as surprise, and what was that, horror? A whispered “We are all going to die here, won’t we?” echoed in the dead silence.

Now that Erik had everyone’s attention, he could start his address. It seemed like a good idea to assure them of their continued well-being first though, as Magneto had found out the hard way that scaring people to death tended to be less productive than one would think.

“Do not worry, humans,” he said, “Had I wished harm upon you I would not inflict it here where there is no audience to appreciate the handiwork. You have nothing to fear from me.”

They looked marginally less scared now, which was a good start. Erik continued,

“I have come here to discuss the first half and let me tell you that I am disappointed in how you were behaving just now. If you carry on like this you will be thrashed by United.” And there will be lots of molten metal and then Emma will shout at me--

It was Mignolet who interjected “You have come here to discuss our performance? As in, you…you are a fan? Of Liverpool? And you want us to win?”

Erik thought that Xavier definitely had a point about the man. Why else could Erik have come down to the Liverpool dressing room? Nonetheless, he needed to be calm and inspiring. 

“Yes. Who else would I support? And of course I want you to win. It’s Manchester United.”

Mignolet opened his mouth as if he wanted to say more, but Erik cut him off. Now was the time for the Speech.

“Take off your blinders, brothers” he said, infusing as much authority into his voice as was possible, “The real enemy is out there.” Here he helpfully pointed out the door, mostly for Mignolet’s benefit. 

“I feel their chants echoing in the stadium. Their crude words targeting us. Humans, mutants. United fans.”

He hated himself for putting the inferior baselines in the same category as mutants but desperate times required desperate measures.

“This, when they should be united in their fear of true greatness. When Mancs should be running away, scared of us, my fellow Liverpudlians. Go ahead, Mignolet, tell me I’m wrong.”

Mignolet shook his head. He looked sufficiently inspired, and most of the team was standing up now, nodding in agreement. 

“Let their jeers be music to your ears. Let their hatred spur you to victory. To Liverpool!” He raised his fist and the team greeted him with corresponding shouts. “Now, if you are done pointing fingers and feeling sorry for yourself, figure out how you are going to go out there and win.” With that, palms open to his side, he lifted himself a few inches off the ground and swishing his cape, turned to leave. His job here was done.


	3. Chapter 3

When he made it back to their block Erik was happy that he only missed a couple of minutes of action. Whipping the team into shape had also diffused his frustration. He was calmer now, ready for whatever Xavier was planning on throwing his way in the next forty-five minutes.

He was, however, not expecting to be greeted with a steaming cup of coffee. Xavier handed it to him with a simple “It has gotten a bit nippy in here, hasn’t it? Thought a warm beverage would do well,” as if getting coffee for Erik was the most natural thing in the world. 

Erik’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Maybe Xavier had gotten tired of fighting the Brotherhood in the public sphere and resorted to poison instead.

As if he had read Erik’s mind, the man added with a smirk: “It is not poisoned, you know. Unlike some people, I don’t believe in murdering my opponents.” He gave Erik a pointed look, and gestured at the cup in his hand.

Erik was still debating whether he should accept the warm cup of bliss --sitting out in the open had left Erik feeling cold—when the old man sitting behind them decided to voice an opinion on the matter. 

“Oi, you with the fancy hat! Sit down, will ya—We can’t see a thing because of your bleeding cape!” he shouted. 

Right, Erik was still standing, and he suspected he might even look a bit dumbstruck; it was not becoming of the world’s most powerful mutant. He seated himself with as much dignity as he could muster and spared the insolent man’s life—not, say, out of embarrassment—but only so that he could gloat to Emma later about how calm and collected he had been. 

He took a sip of the coffee and smiled despite himself at the sudden wave of warmth spreading through his body. On the pitch Liverpool were playing with a newfound verve and confidence, pressing high into the United half and pouncing on every passing mistake. Around them the block had grown quiet; it was the away fans’ voices that were ringing loud and clear in the stadium now. Pleased with himself—perhaps inspiring others to be their best was his secondary mutation—and warmed by his coffee Erik let his guilty pleasure draw him back in until he was barely aware of anything or anyone else.

His football bliss did not last as long as he hoped, however.

“I thought I might be left here holding two cups like an idiot,” Xavier said, picking up their conversation where it was left off “I wasn’t sure if you were coming back for the second half.” 

“As they say, in for the penny, in for the pound.” At this point Erik was planning on saying something grand, along the lines of “at the Brotherhood we make it a point of pride not to abandon things halfway through” and he had no idea why he said “I didn’t want to give my second-in-command the pleasure of saying ‘I told you so.’ She never lets these things go.” 

As soon as he realized what he had said Erik felt mortified. Why was he revealing weakness upon weakness to Xavier, all of a sudden? He glanced at the cup and sniffed it suspiciously. Maybe Xavier had contaminated it with some form of truth serum.

Once again to Erik’s surprise, Xavier chuckled. “You told your second-in-command about this? You are braver than I, my friend. I left Hank in London this morning, only telling him that something grave and urgent required my attention.” He looked at Erik and put on his gravest face before adding “A matter of life and death.” 

Erik let out a short laugh and grinned. Emma and Azazel had both told him that his grin resembled a shark baring its teeth before it attacked it’s helpless prey. Erik disagreed. His Smile of Terror looked nothing like his genuine expression of amusement.

Case in point, Xavier, did not seem terrified at all. Erik wished he could take a picture of the man right then…because it would serve as definitive proof against Emma and Azazel…and not add to any personal collection of Xavier related memorabilia.

He obviously had no such collection.

Obviously

“As I said earlier, United versus Liverpool is always a matter of life and death.”

He was still distracted when he heard a collective intake of breath and before he knew it the away end erupted in shouts and cheers, loud enough to raise the dead. Erik cursed his luck; Liverpool had taken his advice, leveled, and he had missed it.

“Should I let loose my self-righteous fury and accuse you of bending the goal post, Lehnsherr?” Xavier asked.

“You put your fingers to your temple, scrunch up your eyes and the next second United scores an impossible goal. Those are grounds for reasonable doubt. Whereas I’m sure the cameras would pick up a goal post bending on its own.”

“Fair point. I wonder what or rather who inspired Liverpool so much so that their entire attitude changed over halftime, though. Whoever he is, he must be extraordinary.”

Erik could take the piercing blue eyes, the banter and even the kindness that came in the form of a perfect cup of coffee, but the genuine admiration that shone through Xavier’s voice was too much. 

He thinks I am extraordinary, he thought. If only they weren’t archenemies, he would grab Xavier and kiss him to death, right now, right there. And yet seeing as they were, Erik could not afford to be so impulsive.

The solution presented itself to Erik when he heard the sore United fans singing one of their infamous chants. “Park, Park, wherever you may be,” the song started. Xavier winced next to him.

Erik perked up with delight now that he was going to get to kiss Xavier and make a point about the error of the man’s naïve ways. “You eat dog in your own country,”

Now that it was coming to the good bit, Erik knew he had to play it absolutely right. “But it could be worse,” He prepared to use his most indignant, righteous voice, and narrowed his eyes. “You could be scouse,” the fans roared, “eating rats in your council house!”

Showtime.

“Don’t you see Charles? The club you love for bringing people of all walks of life together, bringing ‘humans and mutants under one roof’—its fans take the first opportunity they can get to bash difference in the crudest of ways, using any and every weakness.

“If they were to, say, see two guys kissing at a football game—if I were to kiss you now they would react with the same prejudice. Their homophobia in turn is no different than the disgust humans harbor against their superior kin. Against mutants.”

Xavier made a strangled sound, as if he wanted to say something but Erik was not done yet.

“You are a telepath. If you are so sure of your peaceful philosophy, kiss me and tell me that I am wrong.”

Color was high on Xavier’s cheeks. Taking in his wide eyes and his mouth open in an expression of shock, Erik felt unsure about his plan. 

Then, without a word Xavier closed the distance between them and with one hand on the lower edge of Erik’s helmet he pressed their lips together. 

Erik lamented that the helmet, fashionable and powerful as it was, was not designed to optimize snogging. He needed to have a conversation about possible upgrades very soon.

Nevertheless Xavier had found an angle that worked, and his lips were soft and warm against Erik’s. Before Erik could fully appreciate their beauty, however Xavier drew back. 

Flushed and slightly disoriented the man put two fingers to his temple and said “Well. Let me see.” He was avoiding Erik’s eyes.

In for a penny, in for a pound. 

Erik grabbed Xavier’s wrist and pulled it down, making sure that his grip was gentle but firm.

“No. I meant a real kiss, Xavier. This was barely a peck. How can people respond when they don’t even have the opportunity to notice?”

Still holding on to Xavier’s wrist, Erik used his free hand to clutch at the back of Xavier’s head and pulled him in to crush their lips together. The damn helmet got in the way again, as Erik was apparently less skilled at determining a proper angle of approach. He considered flinging it across the pitch. Maybe it would even hit a hapless United player on the head and make the world a better place.

Thankfully Xavier soon took control of the situation and guided Erik until the angle felt perfect. Erik took his time to explore the beautiful mouth pressed against his, reverent, committing its every detail to memory. Slowly Erik channeled all the want and desire coursing through his body to his lips, caressing and devouring Xavier all at once. If all he could have of Xavier was his mouth, he would make the absolute best of it.

When they finally parted after what felt like centuries compressed into seconds—or was it seconds stretched into centuries?—Erik’s entire body was on fire. He knew bright red did not go well with the deep purple of the helmet from that one time Azazel put it on but he could not bring himself to care too much. By the look of it, Xavier wasn’t doing any better either. He was flushed, and his hair, once carefully styled was now falling to his eyes. So there they sat, facing each other, panting, oblivious to the exuberant crowds around them.

Xavier spoke first, his voice still shaky “Well, I am not sure what would qualify as a real kiss, if…if not that. That was…good.” Erik was vaguely amused at what appeared to be the man’s trademark incoherence, but he wasn’t sure if he would fare any better right now. Xavier wiggled his hand, which made Erik realize that he was still holding it. He quickly moved his hand away.

“Well,” Xavier said “I’m afraid you are still wrong, my friend.” He was leaning in towards Erik, now and speaking quietly. Had I not worn his helmet, I could have felt Xavier’s breath against my ear, now, he lamented. 

“The two men next to you apparently had a bet…on us. The blond one is thinking ‘So obvious. The easiest hundred quid I ever made.’ 

“I…I don’t think we were that obvious,” Erik muttered. 

Taking in a deep breath Charles went on “The old couple behind us—the husband wasn’t particularly impressed with your ‘pretty hat’? Well, he is thinking that we are bloody tourists, who didn’t even watch a second of the game and that we have no respect. That it is two men kissing doesn’t even enter his mind. His wife is wistful—she is wishing that someone would kiss her with as much passion, too. Oh, also that you’d be quite kissable with or without the helmet. It gets, erm, rather detailed after that.” 

He sighed, the color rising even higher on his cheeks. “Do I have to keep going, Erik? They don’t…I promise no one thinks it’s disgusting, or wrong. Their thoughts are on the rather graphic side, however.” 

A beat later he exclaimed “Dear God above. Lehnsherr, why does bloody Henderson think ‘Good for you Magneto, that’s the way to go mate’ with…with fondness? Do I even want to know?”

“I have absolutely no idea why he feels that way.” 

He realized that he didn’t mind conceding the point, which spoke volumes to the dangers of snogging one’s (incredibly attractive) archenemy. Who knew what he would agree to if he slept with the man? As wonderful as this was, Erik knew with a heavy heart that he could go no further lest he endanger the cause. A quick glance at the scoreboard told him that his misery would at least be over soon; there were only five minutes to full time. Xavier, however, seemed determined not to make it easy for Erik. 

“You know,” he said “I told Hank to not to expect me until tomorrow. We could, um, go back to my hotel and discuss mutant politics and so on?”

Erik sighed. “I would love to, Charles, but I cannot…not with Professor X. Things I would do to you if we weren’t archenemies.” 

“You kiss me as though you mean to fuck me with only your mouth and then, then you remember that we are archenemies? If anyone ought to object on these grounds, it should be me. How can the archenemy of an evil mutant supremacist be another powerful mutant? Shouldn’t you be hating the humans with a passion?”

Erik was taken aback by the wisdom of the man’s words. Magneto’s archenemy really ought to be human. Stryker perhaps, or Trask--they were what was wrong with the world. Charles was, well, misguided, and Erik could sleep with misguided.

He looked into the man’s eyes and said, in his most seductive voice, “I never thought I would say this, Charles, but you are absolutely right.”


End file.
